This production is so old, the set probably had to be checked for woodworm. Yet, in the 25 years since it was first seen, Giles Havergal's ramshackle, performance-in-a-piazza staging has proved remarkably robust and assembling a classy cast promised to make up for Welsh National Opera's faux pas of serving more and more of the same.
Ironic then that, in this latest revival, it is Robert David Macdonald's English translation that proves the stumbling block. Not only does it now seem rather dated, but the effort required to spit out every syllable of the quick-fire recitatives and arias is a decided impediment to the relaxed projection of the voices. Even the bloom of Christine Rice's wonderful mezzo was occasionally lost and, as though to prove the point, her loveliest sound emerged in Rosina's aria in the pretend singing-lesson, sung in Italian. More awkwardly, the highly distinctive timbre and articulation of Andrew Kennedy's tenor – so vivid and moving in English song – made his Count Almaviva an odd experience, however technically adept.
With elements of the characterisations hyped – almost camped up – under staff director Sarah Crisp, Rossini's natural sparkle appeared to have become a secondary concern, and conductor Alexander Polianichko's sympathy for the predicament of his singers with the words also meant the music sometimes simply lacked easy flow.
Jacques Imbrailo's Figaro was lithe and engaging, but not as razor-sharp as is necessary to underline the barber's opportunistic masterminding of the plot. In recent outings, Eric Roberts's manoeuvring Dr Bartolo has shamelessly stolen the show. This time that honour fell to Clive Bayley whose Don Basilio – pigtail reaching below his backside – was expertly judged, an out-and-out caricature, but never overplayed.